Mikey and Me
by studentnumber24601
Summary: It seemed like the right thing to do, so I kissed my best friend. [Slash.]
1. Chapter 1

**_Mikey and Me_**

It seemed like the right thing to do, so I kissed my best friend. I think it was the worst day of my life.

As it turns out, kissing one's best friend is rarely the right thing to do, especially not when, like me, one is gay and madly in love with said best friend. And said best friend is straight, and was in the process of pouring out his woes over breaking up with his girlfriend at the time.

In fact, kissing him was just the wrong thing to do.

What happened was this: Mikey was depressed about breaking up with Jess. Neither of them really _wanted_ to break up—they had been together for three years, were the Prom King and Queen, and were generally perfect. Except she's going to college in North Carolina, and he's going to college in California, and neither one wants to start college with so many strings attached. Apparently, they prefer horrible depression.

So Jess left for her orientation week yesterday, and Mikey turned to his best friend in the world to mope to. And, despite the fact that I love him, my status as best friend requires me to listen and be supportive. I'd much rather tell him he'll be fine without her and kiss his brains out to prove it, but, well, Mikey isn't gay, and he definitely doesn't think of me that way.

In order to get his mind off it, we went to a movie, his choice of what to see. And because Mikey is, shall we say, a sensitive new age guy, his favorite kind of movie is romantic comedy. So we went to see a cheesy chick flick—you know the kind, I'm sure. What's odd is that out of the two of us, _I'm_ the gay one, but I'm also the jock and the one who likes to see action movies with little plot but lots of explosions; Mikey, the straight guy, goes to see chick flicks and bawls his eyes out. Even when he _hasn't_ just broken up with his girlfriend. There's a reason our friends started calling him Mush—all that mushy stuff gets to him. That's probably why Jess and about half the girls in our grade fell for him… and, I realize, probably why I did, too.

But I digress.

The movie was, of course, about life, love and loss; in the end, the girl and boy who were obviously meant for each other got together, but the various other love interests they spurned along the way were forgotten. Because no one cares about _other_ hapless characters who might be in love with the leads. Story of my life. I'll bet in ten years, Jess and Mikey run into each other and realize they're still meant to be.

But while the whole 'loss' section of the movie made Mikey realize how much he loves and already misses Jess, the same section of the movie made me realize how much I love and am going to miss Mikey.

He's the best friend I've ever had. I've known him since I was five, and we've just been… _together_ since then. Michael-and-Ryan, who do everything together, go everywhere together, finish each other's sentences and have never once had a major fight. I know all of his secrets, and he knows… _basically_ all of mine. All except the one about me being madly in love with him.

And I can't bring myself to tell him that one. Because even though I doubt he'd let thirteen years of being best friends go just over that, well, who knows? I mean, when I told him I was gay he was a little startled, and then a day later he tried to convince me to ask out the cute grocery bagger at the supermarket. (Didn't happen.) And a week after that, when one of our local neighborhood bullies started calling me names, Mikey was the one who shut him up. And I can't stand the thought that he might be freaked out by me, and I _really_ can't stand the thought that things might be awkward between us. And Mikey, who's perfect in so many ways—he's sweet, thoughtful, caring, adorable, has a smile that could melt butter and a body like a movie star—has two major flaws, and the first is that he's seriously oblivious. It took Jess six months to make him realize she liked him; he's never noticed that I do.

Closely related is flaw number two, which is that he's entirely heterosexual. I know, the crying at chick flicks thing threw me for a loop, but no. Despite stereotypes, he's never once showed any interest in anyone male, let alone me. Sadly.

Anyway. The point is, despite the fact that I've been in love with him for at least three years now, Mikey never realized. And the movie we saw made _me_ realize that him leaving for California, us being separated for the first time since we were five, is going to be the hardest thing in the whole world.

So when he said he was going to miss Jess and didn't know what to do about it, and he'd miss _me,_ I told him I'd miss him too, and kissed him.

It seemed like the right thing to do.

Mikey stared at me for a second, and I realized what I'd done. I'd just kissed my best friend. Three years I'd managed to not clue him in, and with one week left before we head off to college, there goes the neighborhood.

"Ryan?" he finally said, his voice strained.

"Mikey…"

"Why?" He didn't look at me as he asked it, he stared to the left of my head. Too upset to make eye contact. I almost wish I didn't know him so well, so I wouldn't have picked up on that.

"It seemed like the right thing to do," I said, my voice cracking. I laughed a little, tried to play it off as a joke, but no go. He knows me too well, too.

"I'd better… I mean, Mom wanted to go out shopping tonight for new luggage so I can get packing, so I'd better get home. You know. See you, Ryan." And the rush of words is what happens when he doesn't know what to say.

My best friend in the world had no idea what to say to me, and I watched him hurry away, the feeling of his lips on mine still fresh in my mind. And I let him go.

Yeah, that was all six days ago. Mikey's plane to California leaves in about twelve hours. He hasn't called me.

* * *

I always knew leaving for college would be hard. But I never realized I'd have to do it without my best friend. I mean, well, yes, technically, as I'm going to school in California and he's sticking it out in New York, I knew it would be without him—but I figured he'd be right there with me until the last minute, drive me to the airport along with my folks, and be the very last goodbye.

I didn't figure I'd be leaving without saying goodbye at all

Okay, I admit this is partially my fault. Ryan kissed me last week, I flipped out, and, as I had no idea what to say to him, I didn't call him. I didn't call him that night, I didn't call him the next day.

And you know how that is, right? It just gets embarrassing, the longer you wait. And even after I stopped flipping out, there were still a lot of questions I didn't know the answers to.

Like, why in god's name would Ryan kiss me? "It seemed like the right thing to do," he said. It seemed like _what?_ Why! I mean, I know Ryan better than I know myself, and I don't get it. He's never done anything like that before—he's never kissed anyone so far as I know. And believe me, I'd _know_ if Ryan kissed someone; we don't have any secrets from each other.

Maybe kissing me really did seem like the right thing to do at the time. I was freaking out about breaking up with Jess; he got my mind off it. All I've been able to think about is Ryan. Ryan kissing me, the look on Ryan's face when I ran out, Ryan trying to laugh it off. And the fact that he tried to laugh it off means he knows something was wrong, I know him that well, but…

He knows I'm not homophobic, he knows he's my best friend. He knows we can talk about anything, so why didn't he call me? The way I see it, there are three possible reasons:

1) he's really upset about my reaction, since I did walk out on him and all, or;

2) he thinks I'm really upset with him, and doesn't know how to talk to me, or;

3) he died, and no one told me.

Three seems highly unlikely.

If I had some way to guess if it was one or two, I would be way happier about calling him. I mean, if it's the first, I should be calling him and begging him to forgive me. What kind of a guy lets his gay best friend think he's homophobic or, I guess, not totally supportive? When Ryan came out, I told him he was my best friend and nothing could change that, ever. And as soon as he kissed me, for whatever reason he did it, I let something come between us. God, I'm a jerk.

On the other hand, if it's the second one, I should call him and tell him I'm not upset at all. Confused, yes, but he _is_ my best friend.

Either way, I should call him.

But either way, you know, he should call me. He's never not called me for a _week_ before, which makes me think I must be leaving something out. There must be some reason why he's more upset than he should be, that I just don't see. And how can I face him if I don't know why he's upset? Oh man, I am the _worst_ best friend ever.

How can I face him?

So as I lie down to sleep, my plane leaving in twelve hours, I tell myself firmly that he'll call in the morning. Whatever's bothering him, it can't be so bad that he won't call before I leave.

He'll call.

He will.

He's my best friend, he wouldn't let thirteen years of friendship go out the window like this. He'll call me.

But he doesn't.

In the morning, he doesn't call. I load my bags in to the car, he doesn't call. The whole way to the airport he doesn't call Mom's cellphone, and he doesn't call while I wait for the plane.

He doesn't call.

Ryan not calling me for a week, not bothering to flag me down to say goodbye, pretty much means he hates my guts. And I know that I wanted to go off to college with no strings attached, but the only reason I thought I'd be able to let Jess go was because Ryan was there for me. Now I have no bestfriend, no girl friend, and I'm moving across the country to where I won't know anyone at all.

Oh, man. I knew leaving for college would be hard, but I never figured I'd end up going without saying goodbye to Ryan. What happened? Why didn't you call me?

* * *

AN: Thanks to the people who encouraged me to continue this when I posted the original cracked out, insane rough draft in my writing journal, and double thanks to Harmony for beta reading it. As always, feedback is highly appreciated. :) 


	2. Chapter 2

I think this might be the second worst day of my life.

The worst day of my life was a little over nine years ago, when I kissed my best friend and lost him forever.

Today, however, I was fired, and I didn't even get to kiss anyone in the process.

It actually started last week, when I was standing in the hallway, like I'm supposed to, between classes. And I'll admit, yes, when Steve Peterson came out it was a pretty big deal and I've started making sure no one is giving him crap for it, since I had to put up with crap and no teachers stopped it in high school, but I don't think that giving detention to students who call other students filthy names is favoritism. And if Steve had called anyone those same names, he'd have had detention, too.

Jesus Christ, I always figured that by the time _I_ was an adult, society would be through this bullshit. Guess again!

So Steve thinks I'm cool, because I'm the only teacher who doesn't go magically deaf when the word fag is screamed down the hallway, and, not shockingly, a couple of kids put together the fact that I was seen out with a cute science grad student a couple weeks ago (failed attempt at a relationship number seventeen) with the fact that I have good fashion sense and occasionally, you know, _gesture,_ with the fact that I don't let them yell homophobic epithets down the hallway, and realized that yes, in fact, I am gay.

Now, this was not exactly a big secret. The administration knew, as I wasn't about to hide in the closet for the first time since ninth grade. The teachers knew. The students didn't, though; not because I'm ashamed, or even because I was worried about parental reactions (ha ha _ha,_ how naïve I was), but because it was none of their business and it never came up. But yes, a couple of brilliant students put it together, the word spread around school, and the students I had placed in detention decided, for a change, to actually explain to their parents why.

Because, you know, clearly the fact that I'm a fag and Steve Peterson is a fag means that I have an absolutely inappropriate relationship with my _seventh grade bio student._ Seventh grade! If they were even vaguely correct in their accusations, I would deserve to be fired, locked up, and forcibly castrated; but as it turns out, wait for it, _no_ I am _not_ a goddamn child molester.

The fact that I coach little league apparently made it even worse. All that hot young elementary school ass! It must have been heaven for a pervert like me!

So, this afternoon I was asked to stop by the superintendent's office. I figured _something_ was coming; I know they've been getting phone calls. I expected some sort of reprimand about favoritism, as they gave me one of those at the time, maybe a vague threat at worst—best case, just wanting to let me know what's going on.

But no.

Fired.

Well, not in so many words. There's no _proof_ of wrongdoing (perhaps because there is no goddamn wrongdoing), despite the rumors; Steve Peterson apparently told his parents that they were insane, because _ew,_ I'm old. (Does this count as failed relationship attempt number eighteen?) No matter how many therapists and anatomically accurate dolls they threw at him, he insists I've never said anything even vaguely inappropriate to him. All I did was tell some jackasses to watch their language, stop harassing him, and give them detention.

God bless honest kids like Steve Peterson.

Not that it did me any good.

So, yes. The superintendent is there, and the principal, and the vice principal, guidance counselor, the works. Which spells out to me that this is worse than I'd thought. Then they start talking—parents are uncomfortable with me coaching little league, given my sexual preferences, parents aren't thrilled with the rumors they've been hearing that I favor gay kids and punish straight boys for being straight, that they aren't sure what values I'm teaching their children.

To be fair, I'm not teaching them values. I'm teaching them _goddamn seventh grade science._

But of course, the school can't actually fire me. There's no proof; Steve Peterson told his parents that if they try and claim I raped him, he'll run away from home and start selling his body to the people who would actually do such things (okay, see, _now_ I would be tempted to start playing favorites with Steve, just imagining the look on his mother's face); and I haven't actually done anything wrong. And apparently, someone reminded the school administration that it is, in fact, illegal to fire someone based on sexual preferences.

So I'm being told eight months in advance that they don't plan to renew my contract in June. And would I mind taking a leave of absence until then? They can make it worth my while to let it go quietly, and look, I'll have almost a year to find another job!

Fucking rat bastard assholes.

And what, exactly, can I do? Yes, if I threatened legal action, they probably would let me continue teaching for the rest of the year, or somehow find legitimate grounds to fire me—only ninety-four percent of my seventh graders are passing the state mandated standardized tests! They wanted at least ninety-_five_ percent and I'm just not getting the job done.

And there goes my severance package.

And who wants to work for fucking rat bastards anyway?

I just don't want to be the one who has to tell Steve Peterson that I'm fired for being gay. Because to know yourself that well in seventh grade, and to be so comfortable and confident in yourself that you're willing to tell the world who you are and not care about the reaction… That takes a brave kid. And I don't want to make him think he was wrong to do any of it.

I may have yelled something along those lines when I stormed out of the office.

Fucking rat _bastards._

* * *

I straighten my tie and knock on the district office's door. There was a problem with my son's enrollment papers, and it's all my fault; I have too much dignity to play the poor, harried, doesn't-know-what-he's-doing-without-a-wife pity card, but I don't have too much dignity to try and look nice and professional when going to make sure my five-year-old is safely enrolled in kindergarten.

Though if the secretary happens to be young, female, attractive, and willing to take sympathy on a poor, harried single dad who really has no idea what he's doing (and is only partially over the death of his wife) I might, you know, play that card. It's not that I'm over Charese (even a little bit, really), it's just that it's lonely at night.

Once I can get the five-year-old to sleep, I mean.

There's no answer so I let myself in, feeling like a little kid being sent to the office when I see the row of miniature plastic chairs—and then the few adult-sized ones at the end. There is a desk; however, the secretary who I assume would usually be behind it is, in fact, standing next to a door with her ear pressed to the wall. Fascinating.

As it turns out, there's not that much need to eavesdrop; I can hear the yelling a moment later.

"This is—this is _bullshit!_ You are firing me—"

A mumble too low to hear, but I bet the secretary can.

"—You're seriously trying to _bribe_ me into not suing you! I can't believe you—"

Mumble mumble; I wish I was listening in as well. It certainly sounds dramatic.

"Well, you know what? _Fuck you too!"_ The door bangs open, and the enraged figure behind it turns out to be barely on the tall side of average, with wide shoulders and blond hair. "Because you should be—the school should be _proud_ of kids like Steve, who are, who, who are confident and comfortable enough to not be ashamed of _who_ they are, even in an environment where assholes like you tell them that being gay is _such_ a fucking crime that it can get a good teacher fired for doing absolutely nothing wrong!"

The secretary hurries over to her desk and smiles at me.

"Um…" I say. "I'm here about my kid's enrollment…"

"Ha!" the teacher (or, it seems, former teacher) snorts on his way by. "You should send your kid to a real school, where teachers can get some _fucking respect!"_

The door slams pretty hard after him, and I blink, having caught only a very quick look at his profile. But the voice, and the hair and the chin (and the sexuality, the very loud, obvious comments about sexuality) make me wonder if…

Couldn't be. It's been ten years; it _couldn't_ be.

And Ryan, a teacher? Never would happen.

But still…

"I'll be right back," I tell the secretary, and flash her my best grin (the one that Charese said could turn women to jelly), and hurry out the door. A head of blond hair is disappearing out the main entrance of the school, and I hurry after and yell to the retreating figure: "Ryan!"

He freezes.

He turns around.

Jesus Christ. Ryan Ballatt, the best friend who disappeared from my life ten years ago, is standing in front of me, looking more angry than I remember seeing him in my life.

He stares, and squints, and then calls, "Michael?"

I nod, and walk towards him. He gapes at me. I gape back. Ryan looks good; he's wearing khaki and a button up shirt with a tie, his belt coordinates with his shoes, and his eyepatch is gone. The glass eye is apparent, obviously, but I barely register it.

"Hi," I finally say. "Um…"

He stares over at nothing. "Hey, Michael. I, um, should probably go before I get arrested for verbal assault."

"Um…" I trail off. "I think maybe I'll enroll Terry somewhere else, if they fire teachers for being gay."

"Oh, I'm not _fired,"_ he mutters. "I'm taking a sabbatical for the remaining eight months of the school year, and then they aren't picking up my option. You're not allowed to fire teachers for being gay."

"Jesus Christ, assholes," I mutter. "So, um, how've you… been?"

"Well, I've been better, you know, on days when I don't get fired." He sighs, takes a deep breath. "Look, Michael, my head's kind of all over the place right now, I don't know if I can manage awkward small talk right now."

"Okay, cool. I guess I should go withdraw Terry, anyway."

"You were serious?"

"About not letting my son attend a school with institutionalized homophobia? Yes, of course."

"I meant, you seriously have a son?"

I smile. "His name's Terrence; he's five last month."

"Wow." Ryan smiles at me a little. "Way to go, Mikey."

"Yes, my sperm is mighty." I laugh. "Um, I get that you're having a bad day, and I have to go pick up Terrence from day care and all, but… I just moved here, I don't know anyone, so maybe… sometime… I don't know, we could hang out or something?"

"Uh… Yeah, sure," he says hesitantly. "Here, um." He reaches into his back pocket and produces a wallet; after digging in it for a minute, he hands me a card.

I glance down. His name, classroom number, phone extension at school, and email are all listed next to the school's logo. "Um…" I say.

He's got a pen in his hand, and I hand the card back to him. He scribbles out all of that except his name, writes the word 'FUCK' in thick letters over the school's logo, and writes his home phone number on the back. "Better?" he asks.

I nod. "I'll call… um…"

"Whenever's good for you, I guess. Since you've got a kid to schedule around, and I no longer even have a job to keep me busy." He hesitates, and gives my shoulder a quick thump. "See ya, Mikey."

"Bye, Ryan."

He walks off to a car, and I walk inside. Damned if I'll let _my_ son go to a school that thinks there's something wrong with my best friend.

Well, there are a lot of things wrong with my (former?) best friend, but his being gay isn't one of them.

* * *

I'm about ten minutes from my house when it actually hits me that, holy fucking _shit,_ that was Mikey. That was my Mikey, my perfect, oblivious, sensitive, sweeter than any human should be Mikey. The Mikey I kissed nine and a half years ago, and never managed to make up with after. _That_ Mikey.

I feel a little dizzy and pull over to the side of the road, get out of my car, and seriously debate puking. In the last half hour, I've been accused of being a child molester, fired with no grounds, and then run into my first serious love. Who now has a kid, which kind of implies a female counterpart of some sort.

So much for the theory that someday, Mikey would realize he's gay and come searching for me. And as I seem to be incapable of getting beyond the third date mark, I would be single and waiting for him. Yeah. So much for that last adolescent fantasy of mine.

When I eventually stop feeling pretty ill, I get back in the car and drive home. I'm almost twenty-eight years old; I should be able to deal with this. And the thing is, I'm more outraged about the accusations than anything else. I really don't want to work in a school that gives any credence to unsubstantiated claims that I've ever done or said anything out of line with my students or little leaguers. I'm not a goddamn child molester, and the thought that I've been accused of it makes me shake with rage.

I flop down on my couch and debate calling someone. Let's see. There's Trina, the adult faghag nursery school teacher who likes to get coffee and complain about how hard it is to find a nice guy (oh, believe me, I know). She'd probably have some sympathy for me, but on the other hand, if I slip up and mention _Mikey…_ Then that's it, game over. Fired, who cares? Hot ass!

Hot, probably married and definitely straight ass.

There's Greg the Cute Grad Student, who I hadn't planned to call again (apparently, a mutual feeling, as it's been three weeks since our last contact) but who I didn't really leave on bad terms, precisely. And that's about the sum total of people I can call, because all my other friends are friends through work, and I'm not ready to deal with that gang yet. Not until I've come to terms with the fact that I've been fired for something I didn't do.

Trina, or Greg…

My phone rings and I seriously, seriously debate letting the machine get it. I check caller ID and it has no clue who it is, but it's a local number. Maybe the superintendent calling to apologize for being a dick and give me my job back. Not likely, but then again, neither was the fantasy that someday Mikey would appear and say he's madly in love with me, and I nursed that one until, um, about an hour ago.

So what the hell. I pick up the phone. Maybe it'll just be a telemarketer, who can take my mind off this whole mess. "Hello?"

"Hey… Ryan? It's, um, Michael."

"Hey, Mike… Michael."

"I just figured maybe… I mean, you probably have a bunch of friends to take you out and tell how unfair this is and… stuff… but I don't know, if you want to come over for a drink or anything, I mean, if you don't already have plans… I just can't believe shit like this still happens, so I figured I'd try and do the supportive… friend… thing. If you want."

"You sure you want to let me in the same house as your son? I apparently like underage ass, the younger the better."

"_What!_"

So I explain to Michael how telling a seventh grader not to use derogatory language means I've apparently molested the entire little league team I coached last year. The silence I get from Michael is not exactly reassuring.

Then, "Jesus _Christ,_ what is wrong with these people! Have they never met you? Have they never spoken to you? I—the only reason I'm not swearing at the top of my lungs right now is that Terry can hear me from the living room."

I almost smile a little. Good old Mikey.

"Thanks, Mikey. Michael. I, uh…"

"Man, I never thought talking with you would be so awkward," he says, which kind of takes the words right out of my mouth. "But, unless you already have plans, you are going to come over tonight. It's already almost five, and Terry's bedtime is six thirty, which means he's usually asleep by eight. So you are coming over for dinner and beer, and I'm not taking no as an answer."

Well, who am I to argue? "Sure, Michael."

"Um, I hope spaghetti-os are okay. At least, that's what Terry and I are having…"

"Sounds great."

"Great! Here, I'll give you directions, then I promised Terry I'd go read to him, so…"

Mikey reading to a kindergartener. Be still my beating heart. And go _away,_ my unrequited crush. I'm an adult. I should be over this by now.

But I still write down his slightly confused directions, as he's new to the town and not quite sure how to give them. (He starts at the school, and I realize there's actually a much quicker way, which I'll maybe tell him about later. You know, if he ever wants to know how to get to my house.)

"So, eight o'clock?"

"Sounds good. Thanks, Michael."

"Hey, I'm just glad for a little conversation that doesn't involve Pooh Bear. Speaking of which, I did promise the squirt a story, so…"

"Of course. See you in a couple hours."

"Bye!" He hangs up, and I do too, and sigh.

Crush on Mikey? Yeah, I'm feeling that about now. A guy nice enough to call and find out what happened to me, not two hours after our freak coincidence meeting; a guy nice enough to invite me over to take care of me when I'm having a shitty day, even though he hasn't seen me in going on ten years.

Oh, man. Mikey, why aren't you gay?

* * *

Though I still use the silly voices when I read the story of Pooh's expedition to Terry, I am inwardly seething. How dare anyone accuse Ryan of something like that? How _dare_ they? Do they not get that he's, like, the nicest guy who ever lived? That he's always been, yes, kind of impulsive and loud, but he's never intentionally hurt anyone, ever, to the best of my knowledge? Do they not get that he knows the difference between right and wrong? What is _wrong_ with these people!

I put Terry to bed. Terry wants another story, but I want to clean up a little before Ryan gets here. I'm still not entirely unpacked—in fact, there are still boxes in basically every room—and I never cleaned up from dinner. The house is in a state of chaos, because, well, a five-yearoold lives here. (And me, the hapless single father.)

And do I even _have_ beer? Oh, god, I don't. But I can't leave Terry, to run down to the store, what if something happens when I'm gone? What if he gets scared and wants me? What if the house catches fire while I'm off buying _beer?_ Oh god, what kind of a father am I? Ryan will understand, right? That I haven't had time to do much shopping, and my son comes first. I mean, he's a teacher, he'll understand about me having a kid, right?

Why am I so nervous? It's just _Ryan._ Just the guy who I haven't seen in ten years. The one who kissed me and never spoke to me again.

Who I invited over for drinks (because I can't go _out,_ I don't even know who to call for a babysitter), even though I don't have anything to drink.

Oh, god.

Oh, _god._

I tell myself firmly to stop panicking, that Ryan will understand, and I flip on the TV—softly, so I don't give Terry any ideas. I collapse on the couch for a few minutes, then try and get up and straighten, but it feels kind of hopeless. Nothing is ever going to make this place less chaotic. But I figure, I've still got an hour before he gets here; I can at least feed him something better than canned spaghetti-os, since I apparently can't give him anything to drink.

He arrives just as the chicken is getting done (and the chicken means cold leftovers tomorrow for me and Terry, which is actually good to know—I'm so bad at this menu planning thing). He looks a little frazzled, and I'm sure I do too, but out of the two of us, he has a right to.

"So…" I say. "Uh, hi, come on in… Sorry about the mess, we're still unpacking."

"Um," he says hesitantly. "Who… Who is 'we' exactly? I mean, I assume that if you have a son…"

"It's just me and Terry," I say.

"Oh." He looks a little surprised.

"Charese…" I'm not sure how to say it, so I just _say_ it. "My wife died in a car crash. About a year ago. So it's just me and Terry."

"Oh, god, Mikey," he says, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too." I wonder what Charese would have thought of Ryan, and what Ryan would have thought of Charese. I loved them both, in vastly different ways; I hope they'd get along. "Uhhh… I know I invited you over for a drink, but I checked and, well, I haven't had a lot of time to shop yet, and I'm kind of… out…"

He gives me a wan smile. "No problem," he says. "I probably shouldn't drink when I'm depressed anyway, you know… I mean, you remember Dad."

I nod. The fact that Ryan's dad was an alcoholic was his worst kept secret; it figures he wouldn't drink much. Just to be sure. And if he's responsible about _that,_ how the hell could anyone ever accuse him of harming a kid? Jesus.

"But," I say hastily, "I made chicken."

"Oooh," he says, sounding intrigued. "I'll admit that I'm a little starving."

"Well, then." I usher him into the kitchen and wonder what he thinks. I managed to wipe down the counters, stove, and table, but there are dishes in the sink, boxes stacked all over, and cheerios on the floor. Not to mention the myriad toys that decorate the whole house.

"So…" He gestures at the boxes. "I take it you haven't been here long?"

"About a week. I wanted to get Terry started at school as soon as I could, but now I'm not sure where I'm going to send him…"

"Seriously, don't worry about—the school was fine, good for kids," Ryan says.

"Nice try, but I'll go out of my way to avoid it, thanks."

He shoots me a smile. "Just don't do it on my behalf."

"If I heard about them doing that to anyone, I wouldn't… I mean, you know me."

"Do I?" Ryan asks. "I mean… I used to…"

"Yeah," I admit. "That was kind of a long time ago, huh? What… whatever happened to us?"

Ryan looks down at the cheerio-strewn floor. "You tell me," he says. "I was just… waiting for you to let me know it was okay. I figured it wasn't since you didn't…"

I frown. "Ryan, I wasn't… You were my best friend. We're on the same page here, right? We kind of drifted apart in college… Because, um, because…"

Ryan stares at his hands. "Because I kissed you," he says, like I could forget. "Yeah, same page."

"I was just…" I sit down and try to figure out what to say. "I was startled, you know. I didn't know what to say to you."

"A simple 'I don't hate your guts' would have been nice," Ryan says, and sounds a little bitter.

I start to snap a response, then remember the kind of day he's had and keep myself calm. "Why would I hate you?" I ask. "I was just startled."

"You could have called."

"I figured you were probably… pissed at me. You know, for freaking out," I say carefully. "And I figured freaking out made me kind of a, you know, jerk, and I didn't know what to _say._ Ryan… Please tell me you never thought I hated you." I stare over at him, and he continues staring at his hands. "Come on, I couldn't hate you. You're my… Were my best friend."

"I just thought…" He sighs, and looks up at me. "This isn't easy, you know. To talk about."

"It was a long time ago." I shrug. Any freaking out I did back then ended a _long_ time ago, about the time I couldn't track down my best friend to be my best man. That was when I really realized how much I missed Ryan, and was sorry I'd ever let our friendship go like that.

"That doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt," he says. "Rejection doesn't stop hurting just because… I mean… Forget it." He sighs and looks up. "You said there's food?"

"Yeah, of course." I open the stove to check on the chicken, which appears to be done, so I dig around in the chaos for potholders. "What do you mean, rejection?" I ask, as I pull the chicken out.

"What?"

"What?" I repeat.

Then he laughs, but it's not a happy laugh. It's a kind of agonized laugh, like he's about to crack and lose it for good. "Ryan?" I ask.

"You seriously never got it?" he asks. I frown. Got what? So he continues, "Oh, man, Mikey. You really _were_ oblivious."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Michael, I… Back in high school, I was in _love_ with you." He shakes his head. "I mean, I knew you were straight; I knew the rejection was coming, I knew it was coming for _years._ But when you walked out after I kissed you—and then never called me or anything—and you were in college and I—I mean, what was I supposed to think?"

I sit down abruptly, chicken on the stove-top to cool. "You what?" I ask weakly.

He shrugs. "I was in love with you. My best friend. For years."

"But…"

"I figured you'd figured it out, that you didn't want to… deal with me anymore or anything. I mean, if I were you I might have been pissed…"

"I didn't _know,_" I say, horrified at my own oblivion, horrified that Ryan though I hated him all these years, horrified because _if_ I'd know, I'd never, ever have let it go. I'd have made sure he knew that I still cared about him, wanted to stay friends, I'd never have lost my best friend…

I try to think of a way to explain all of that, a way to apologize, when Terry starts crying.

* * *

I think Mikey's kid must have good timing, because right when I can't stand it, and I don't know what to say and God knows he doesn't either, he starts screaming. Screaming and crying, sounding like something terrible is going on, and of course Mikey runs off. I wonder if I should follow, then decide it's probably some sort of father-son thing, and sit around for a few minutes. I can hear the crying, and Mikey talking, and look around.

It's obvious Mikey hasn't had time to unpack yet, but has been trying; I can see boxes and dishes and empty cabinets. There's one closet, also empty, and it's hanging open. A broom is sitting inside it, looking lonely and unused.

I can still hear the kid crying, and having nothing else to do, I get up, grab the broom, and begin to sweep. _Yeah, Ryan,_ I tell myself. _That'll make him forget you've said you're in love with him. Sweep his floor._

But I sweep his floor, and since I can still hear the poor boy crying, I start doing dishes. Then I explore the cupboards and see there's barely anything in them; the box on top of the pile is open, with mugs and glasses in it, so I pick a cupboard that looks appropriate and start putting them away. I'm halfway through the box when Michael walks back into the room, looking harried.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

He sighs. "Terry's not used to the new room yet, and he dreams about his mom sometimes, and… He's such a trooper, you know, I just moved him across the country and all."

I nod, and he sees what I've been doing.

"I, uh, meant to get around to all of that… Oh, god, you did the dishes. Ryan, I…"

I shrug. "You were doing something more important," I answer.

"He's such a good kid. I don't know what… I mean, I moved us out here to get away from all the, the memories of his mom. I figured it's closer to his grandparents, it's a nice house with a big yard, there's the one school and then the gifted high school, but I don't know if it's enough."

"Enough for what?"

"For Terry… I want to do everything for him, but I'm not a _mom._ I don't know what I'm doing half the time."

"You think moms do?" I ask, thinking about my own mom and how she died. In a car crash, when I was just a couple of years older than Terry. But my dad never really tried—needless to say there was no nice house and yard, no gifted and talented program in my future. "You're such a good dad," I say. "I'm sure of it."

"I wish I was sure." He sighs. "So, um, chicken. And now we have clean plates, too." He looks over at me and smiles. "Jesus, Ryan, I missed you. I called everyone we were friends with in high school when we were planning the wedding, I mean, when we were ten and my cousin got married you promised to be my best man."

I smile at him. "I didn't expect you to really do it," I say.

"I wanted to. I really… really missed you, sometimes."

"I missed you too," I say, and can't stop myself from adding, "You know, usually at this point in my fantasy, you tell me you're gay and we go have amazing sex."

He stares for a second, then laughs a little. "Ryan, if I'd ever realized you liked me, I would have… made sure you know I loved you. You know, as a brother. I never wanted to lose that, I never wanted to… to hurt you."

"I know," I say, shrugging. "If I wasn't such a chicken, I'd have called you after the kiss, just told you the truth."

"I wish you had," he says, then, "I wish I'd called you."

I clear my throat, as he hands me a plate of chicken. "Um, Mikey, if you're around… I mean, if you need any help, I'm around. If you need someone to, I don't know, go shopping or watch the kid for awhile…"

"Thank you," he says, and sounds really grateful. "I mean, I can't believe this. I pick a random town and move, and my best friend shows up out of the blue."

I hear myself asking before I think about it, and feel quite pathetic, "Am I? Your best friend?"

He shoots me a smile, the one that's always made me melt, the one I've seen in my dreams and memories for years now, and says, "You always were. No one's ever known me like you."

This is the point where I wish I could grab him and kiss him, but instead I just grin over at him. "Back at you," I say.

"All I get's a 'back at you?' Pshaw." He smirks at me. "But thanks."

"Good chicken," I say.

"Charese's recipe."

And I wonder, how long is it going to take before he and I are comfortable together again?


	3. Chapter 3

Ryan is a godsend.

There's no other way to describe it. In the next week after our meeting, Ryan helped me get the rest of the house unpacked, showed me where to shop, gave me directions around town, helped me find an alternate school, and made peanut butter cheerio treats with Terry. Terry instantly loved him about as much as I did, and Ryan seemed to take to Terry, too, and I think half the times I saw him he just wanted to come over and play with my son.

Which was fine by me. He kept Terry busy while I got work done and settled into my new job, in charge of stock, ordering, and other equally boring things for a local bookstore. (Not one of those awful chains, a real local bookshop.) It was a dull job, but I got a nice discount, and Terry loves to be read to and is learning to read himself quite well.

He started school, Ryan started tutoring to make up for the lost income (the settlement he reached with the school had him being paid as a part time teacher), and I settled down into a nice, new life. I still missed Charese terribly, but for the first time since she died, it felt like we were a real family again—me and Terry, and, oddly, Ryan.

Everyone should have a best friend like mine.

It only took two months for me to realize how much a part of the family he was.

This evening, as usual, Ryan was sitting in my living room with a book, a bottle of beer, and the TV on. He does this on two out of every three nights or so; Terry and I don't object any. Like I've said, it's nice to have the company.

"So," I said, sitting down after Terry finally fell asleep (he's getting better and better at finding ways to stay up—one more glass of water, one more bedtime story, one more trip to the bathroom, and so on. I have to keep on my toes, he's a smart kid,) "How's your day been?"

"Miserable," he says.

"Oh… Yeah?" I frown. I didn't realize. "Why's that?"

"Jared called this morning. He won't be able to make it on Friday night."

"Why?" I ask, knowing from his tone of voice that it isn't just a casual cancellation that will be made up later.

"Because I'm too old, unemployed, and the hot college student at Starbucks asked him out."

"Bastard," I say vehemently, and he nods.

"Failed relationship number eighteen," he mutters.

"You were too good for him, anyway," I say.

"Yeah, sure. It wouldn't hurt so much if he wasn't right." He groans. "I'm twenty-seven, unemployed, and spend all my free time mooching off my best friend's beer."

"Ryan, you're going to get a job," I say firmly.

"Yeah, I'd better. Guess who was late on rent again this month!" He takes a drink of beer. "Luckily, the landlady thinks that if she wears enough tank tops, I'll be swayed over to the dark side."

"Dark side?" I ask, laughing.

"Yeah, _your_ side," he says, and shrugs. "My lease is up next month anyway; I might as well start shopping around for somewhere cheaper. Hell, maybe one of the schools will finally call me and I'll move closer to wherever my new job is…"

But he doesn't sound hopeful.

"Uh, Ryan," I say, knowing it's the right decision before I even figure out what I'm offering, "I _do_ have a spare bedroom here, you know."

"So?"

"So… if you're having trouble with rent and want to save or something, you could just stay here."

"I wouldn't want to impose."

"Believe me, it wouldn't be. It would be worth it to have a live-in babysitter."

"Come on, Mikey," he says, and swats at my shoulder lazily. "You don't want me around all the time. I mean, what's the fun of being able to go out whenever you want if you can't bring her home?"

"Like I can bring a girl home with my five-year-old asleep in the house?" I point out. "I mean, if you want it can just be for a few months, until you find out where you'll be working next year—so you don't get another lease until you know where you're moving."

He shrugs. "I'll think about it."

"Besides," I say, "Terry loves you."

"Terry's a good kid," he says. "Thanks for letting me borrow him."

"Borrow?"

"Well, I figure I'm not likely to have any of my own…" He shrugs. "I mean, half the reason I became a teacher was because I love kids."

"Well, you're welcome to Terry any time," I say.

Ryan, as it turns out, takes me seriously.

* * *

In my town, the grocery store is kind of a nexus point. Everyone passes through it, and you never know quite who you're going to run into.

So I'm not _too_ shocked to hear a kid yell, "Mr. Ballatt! Mr. Ballatt!" (But believe me, it took six months to get _used_ to being 'Mr. Ballatt'.)

I look around to see who it is, and to my surprise, it's none other than Steve Peterson. He waves at me so I walk over; he's standing around, probably waiting for a parent or something.

"How've you been, Steve?" I ask conversationally.

"Great." He gives me a slightly shy smile. "I kind of have a boyfriend now. He's on the track team at AHS, I met him at one of my bother's meets."

"Great!" I say. "Things okay at school?"

"Yeah." He frowns. "Mr. Ballatt, I just wanted to say… I mean, I wanted to tell you I'm real sorry."

"Sorry?" I ask, frowning.

"That you were fired. I know it's kind of my fault… But I swear I only told them the _truth,_ all you did was give that asshole detention!"

"You mind your language," I say, back in teacher mode automatically, then register what he means. "Oh, Steve, I didn't… It wasn't your fault, you didn't do anything," I add quickly.

"But you got _fired_ for… helping me out," he says.

"I got fired," I say, phrasing it carefully, "because some people aren't very understanding. Everyone at school knew the truth, but they didn't want it to blow up into some big thing."

"They still shouldn't have _fired_ you," he insists.

"I agree, but I didn't want it to be too big of a deal, either," I say. "I mean, _I_ know who I am and that I didn't do anything wrong. What other people think doesn't matter to me."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he says. "I'm still sorry, though. Your replacement _sucks."_

I feel a little vindicated by that, and as I'm grinning wickedly, Michael walks over, wheeling Terry in a grocery cart. "Hey, Ryan, this your student?" he asks.

Steve stares at him for a minute, then grins at me. "Mr. Ballatt," he says, and I realize what he's about to say as he says it, but don't have time to stop him, "he's _cute."_

Mikey sputters for a moment, and turns red. I try to recover more quickly and say, as calmly as I can, "I guess he is, but he doesn't swing that way, Steve."

"That's too bad," Steve says, and he's checking Mikey out. And I have to bite back a laugh, because Michael looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"It was good seeing you, Steve," I say finally.

He grins and starts to walk off, then looks back and says, "By the way, you were my favorite teacher!"

Mikey punches my shoulder. "You should see the dorky grin on your face. Does it get like that whenever anyone calls you his favorite teacher?"

I nod. "It makes it worth dealing with the bullshit," I say.

"Well, I'm glad something does. The world needs more teachers like you."

"Skittles?" Terry puts in.

"Terry—" Mikey starts.

I interrupt with, "You know the rules, kiddo. You have to say _please_ and eat all of your dinner, even the broccoli."

"I _hate_ broccoli," Terry says and pouts.

"Then no Skittles," I say, and can see Terry debating internally.

Finally he says, "Daddy, can I _please_ have Skittles?"

"Sure," he says, and gives me an odd look.

I think I neglected to tell Michael about that new rule I made up a couple weeks ago. He doesn't like Terry to have too much sugar, understandably (the kid is five, like he _needs_ sugar…) but I figure if I can get him to be polite _and_ eat his veggies, a bag of Skittles now and then isn't so bad.

"No making rules when I'm not home to vet them," Mikey whispers to me as he begins pushing the cart again.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially with the please thrown in," I say.

"Once a week," he says.

"Deal." I totally won.

"Don't think you won," he says. "My son, my rules."

"Right." I nod. "Sorry, I didn't mean to undermine you or anything."

"No problem." He smiles at me. "I know you'd only do what's best for Terry, anyway. Right, Terry?"

I ruffle Terry's hair, and he grins back at us. "Daddy, can I have ice cream, too? Please?"

"No," he says.

"Ryan, can I have ice cream too, please?"

"You heard your dad, kiddo, you get one treat."

"_Please?"_ he says.

I shake my head no, and he pouts, thrusting out his lip.

"Uh huh, and what did I tell you about pouting?" I ask.

"Oops," he says quickly.

"What did you tell him?" Michael asks.

"Only to pout at Daddy and never at me, because it works on him and it doesn't on me," I say.

He raises an eyebrow. "What did Ryan tell you about pouting?" he asks Terry.

"That if I pout too much my face'll get stuck!" he says enthusiastically. "And a _bug_ will land on my lip!"

He looks over at me, and I shrug. It's the same basic thing.

"And Ryan knows lots and lots about bugs 'cause he's a science teacher and he took me to the library on Tuesday and we got a book about bugs!"

"You did?" Michael asks me.

"Well, we stopped on the way home from school," I explain.

"What's your favorite kind of bug?" Mikey asks.

"Locusts!"

"Are we into plagues this week?" Michael asks, sounding amused.

"What's a plague?" Terry asks.

Michael and I kind of stare at each other. "Well…" I finally say, when Michael shakes his head a little. "See, there was this guy named Pharaoh, who behaved _really_ badly."

"Did he get a time out?"

"Well, kind of…" I say, and look at Mikey for help. "This is what I get for making up rules, isn't it?" I ask.

"So, did Pharaoh get a time out?" Mikey asks, and I mock-glare and try to figure out how to answer this whole thing.

* * *

My first hint should have been the glee I experienced on Ryan's behalf when Steve Peterson called him his favorite teacher. I mean, anyone would be excited for his best friend getting good news, but I was genuinely _vindicated_ on Ryan's behalf. I was pretty much ready to call the school that fired him and yell, "HA!" in the phone and hang up.

But, being me, I didn't notice that.

My second clue should have been that my breath caught in my throat when I realized that there was nothing in the world that made Ryan happier than being with me and Terry. Or really, just being with Terry.

What happened was, I asked Terry if he wanted to play outside. It was a nice afternoon and I _did_ get a house with a yard for my son, after all. What Terry answered was, "I don't know what to play."

My immediate thought was, _Oh my God, my child has no imagination, I have to get him more books!_ but Ryan said, "You don't know what to play? Mikey, I'm ashamed to call you my best friend."

The next afternoon, Ryan showed up at my house with a tee, a wiffle ball, a plastic bat and a kid-sized glove. I sat on the porch and watched them play against a backdrop of changing leaves, for hours. Ryan taught Terry how to keep his eye on the ball, how to hold a bat, and they spent a good three days in a row on batting stance.

When Terry is old enough for little league, he's going to kick some serious ass.

But the fact that I looked at Ryan and Terry playing ball and thought, _I'm glad Terry has a second daddy incase something happens to me,_ didn't clue me in, either. I mean, that's understandable, right? Something horrible and tragic happened to my wife, Terry's mom, and so I can't just pretend that such things couldn't happen. And at the time, I just figured it was nice to know that there would be someone who Terry loves, who loves Terry back, who would take care of him if something happened to me.

Also, when I watched Ryan teaching Terry all about the first Yankees dynasty during batting practice (they both referred to it that way very seriously), I couldn't stop grinning because my son and my best friend loved each other, and I adored them both so much.

What finally got me was just now.

I had to work late, dealing with a shipment of books that had been delayed, and getting them ready to shelve and such, and Ryan said he'd pick Terry up from daycare (they know him on sight, now, since I authorized him to pick up Terry and he does it so often) and get him dinner and ready for bed—and though Ryan is a huge part of our lives, the pleasure of reading Terry his bedtime story is still mine and mine alone.

But I was late getting home tonight, and it was almost Terry's bedtime. I figured Ryan would be trying to con him into taking a bath, but there was no sound of chaos. There wasn't any sound except murmuring from the back of the house, where Terry's room is.

So I approached quietly, curious about what the scientist might be teaching my son this week. There are some questions I'm glad Ryan's around to help field—why girls and boys have different body parts, where babies come from, that kind. Terry and I already had a long talk about death and what happens when you die, but, well, he was four and he missed his mommy, and so did I. It's hard to explain to your son why God takes away people you love, especially when you're crying yourself.

Ryan, as it turns out, handled it better than I did.

I stood outside Terry's room, and could hear that Terry was upset, sniffling. I started to rush in, then stopped to listen.

"When's Daddy gonna be here?"

"Soon, kiddo, he said he'd read you your bedtime story."

"I want _Mommy_ to read to me."

"Oh." Ryan paused, and I nearly rushed in again, but he started talking again. "Well, your mommy… She, uh, she can't be here, but I know she loves you very much."

"Where'd she go?"

"Well, you see, kiddo… That's a tough one to answer. You sure you don't want to know why the sky is blue again?"

"When I ask Daddy where she is, he gets sad."

"That's because your daddy misses her too. Um, the thing is, no one _knows_ exactly what happens when someone dies."

"Why did Mommy die?"

My kid is quite precocious, all these questions. All these questions that I'd like answers to, too. But Ryan, though he sounded a little strained, seemed to be handling them well enough, and honestly. If he wasn't honest, I think I'd have been pretty mad, but I should know Ryan better than that. After all, _he_ got all kinds of bullshit when his mom died…

"You're full of tough ones today, aren't you?" Ryan answered. "Well, see, no one knows why people die. It's not… It isn't _bad,_ though. Even when you're really sad and you miss her, that's okay. Everything… Everything happens for a reason."

"Why?"

"I don't know, kiddo."

"Did your mommy die?"

"She did, she died in a car wreck, like yours."

"Really? Did it hurt?"

"It did," Ryan said. "But it doesn't anymore."

"Were you sad?"

"Sometimes, I'm still sad," he said. "But the thing is, I look around and see you and your daddy, and all the people who still love me, and that makes me feel better."

"What if Daddy dies?"

"Oh, kiddo, c'mere." I could tell that Ryan was hugging Terry—and you know, Terry knows he's absolutely safe when Ryan hugs him. He knows that when Ryan is there for him, nothing could go wrong. "If your daddy dies, you and I will be very sad. But we'd still love each other and I'd take care of you, just like he does. So even though we'd be sad, we'd be okay."

"I don't want Daddy to die."

"Me, neither. But he probably won't for a long, long time."

"Will he be home soon?"

"I hope so, kiddo. I really, really hope so. I love him too, you know."

"Does Daddy love you?"

Oh, my son is _brilliant_. I barely heard Ryan say, "Sure, I'm his best friend." Because my brain was thinking, _Yes, Terry, Daddy loves Ryan very much._

Daddy's not gay. So far as he knows.

But good Lord, do I love Ryan. And the thought of raising Terry without him sends me into a cold sweat.

And that was how I realized, and why I look a little flush as I hurry into the room.

"Daddy!" Terry yells, and I pull him out of bed to hug him tight. Ryan raises an eyebrow and I realize _he_ realizes I must have heard some of the conversation, but it occurs to me that, for once, I've figured out something before him.

I love Ryan.

Holy shit, you know, I love Ryan.

"Oh, Terry, I love you," I murmur into his hair, still hugging him. "I love you, baby."

"Then can I stay up late?"

"Not a chance," I say, grinning. My kid is brilliant.

Ryan stands up. "Well, it's time for your bedtime story, which means it's time for Daddy." He ruffles Terry's hair

"Wait, one sec, Ryan." I deposit Terry back in bed. "I'll be right back, okay, Terry?"

Terry frowns, because this is supposed to be father-son time, but he nods, and I follow Ryan out of the room. He gives me a quizzical look, and I grab his arm—his hand.

"Move in with me," I say.

"Uh." He gives me a confused look. "Mikey…"

I kind of push him against the wall and look up into his eyes. "Move in with me," I repeat. "Please."

"I, uh…"

"What if something happens to me?" I ask him. "Terry loves you, I love you, please. Help me raise my son. Move in with me."

"Okay," he says, staring at me like I've grown another head. "Are you okay?"

I nod emphatically. "Best I've been in a long time, Ryan." I flash him a grin and head back to my son's room, to read him a bedtime story.

* * *

Something is definitely up. I know Mikey too well for this. He seems to be in a great mood—something must be good. Maybe a promotion at work or something? Maybe he met a nice, hot guy in his late twenties who said he's yearning for a nice blond man to start a life with. Though I bet then he wouldn't have just demanded that I move in with him.

Or have pinned me up against the wall like he used to do to Jess in high school.

I make myself comfy on his couch with a beer and my book (Mikey's discount at work is quite nice, I must say), and wait. Normally I'd flip on the TV, but I figure Mikey's got something to say. Or maybe I'm reading into it.

I mean, I do love him. It's possible I'm reading too much into it, even though I _know_ I shouldn't be hopeful like this. Just because he kind of, sort of held my hand, just because he pushed me into a wall and said he loves me and wants me to move in with him… I mean, yes, in other people that would kind of imply that I'm not so off base in my daydream that he maybe, I don't know, has come to his senses and realized that he's _so_ gay.

And while I'm wishing, I've always wanted to play first base for the Yankees.

It takes twenty minutes before he joins me in the living room, and takes the book out of my hand. He grins directly into my face.

"Mikey?" I ask. "Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Meyers?"

He laughs—I love his laugh—and shoves me back against the couch, and kisses me.

I stare at him.

He laughs at me.

"Mikey…" I start, and don't even know what to say.

"Yeah?" he says nonchalantly.

"Why?" I ask.

He grins. "It seemed like the right thing to do. Can I do it again?"

"Well, I won't stop you, but—"

I don't get to explain the but, because he kisses me again, and since I'm expecting it this time, man, is the kiss better. It really is like something out of my fantasies, Mikey putting his arms around me and kissing me with tongue and everything. Good lord, Mikey is kissing me.

When he finally stops, arms still around me, I get to ask, "Um… Mikey, aren't you straight?"

"I have no idea!" He laughs. "I just, I realized something. Ryan, I haven't been this happy since, since before Charese died."

"Well, good!" I give him an odd look. "So, why'd you kiss me? Exactly?"

"Because I love you," he says, and smiles over at me. "I don't know, I guess wanting to spend my life with you makes me bi or gay or something. I didn't think I was. Maybe I'm not even, I don't _feel_ gay. Maybe it's just that I love _you."_

I blink.

He waits for a response.

I stare at him.

I suddenly understand how it's possible that, out of sheer confusion, we lost contact for ten years.

Did Mikey just say he loves me? Did Mikey just kind of inadvertently _propose_ to me?

"Mikey… Smaller words, maybe?"

He nods. "Okay, let me see if I can explain. I, um, since Charese died, I've been thinking, you know, I'll never meet anyone like her, anyone who makes me feel like she did. She made me feel so great, like I was the best man in the world, and she made me feel… whole. I thought I'd never, ever feel that again.

"But then I heard you explaining to Terry that you love him, and realized that he feels about you the same way he feels about me—that he felt about Charese. That you're his parent. And then I realized that you… You make me feel like that, the same as she did. Like I'm whole again.

"I realized, I love you. And I don't want to be without you. Not ever. Ryan…" He takes my hand and stares in my eye. "Ryan, I love you."

"Oh," I say, a bit startled. "Well. You know. Okay."

"Okay? All I get is _okay?"_

"Well, yeah." I smile a little. "I _guess_ if you love me, and I _guess_ if you want me to move in and spend my life with you, I could do that. You know, for Terry's sake."

"Right," he says. "For Terry's sake. Uh… I've never made out with a guy before."

"You did a pretty good job for your first time," I assure him, and am surprised by how… _not_ frightening this is. But, I think, it's because this isn't the beginning of our relationship. Mikey and me, we've been together since we were Terry's age.

It just took us this long to realize it.

You know, my best friend kissed me today. He said it felt like the right thing to do. I think it was the best day of my life.

* * *

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, and double thanks to Harmony for beta reading.

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